Justice's Spectral
by Blackfire 18
Summary: Mme. Giry has just led M. Raoul Le Vicomte down the steps to the Phantom's lair. Meg arrives a moment later and Giry seizes her daughter, not daring to let her precious only child descend into the ominous black. Meg persuades her mother to let her go...


**Justice's Spectral**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera or any of the characters there within.**

**All right, another short fanfiction devoted to Miranda Richardson's Madame Giry. Short, sweet, and all in one take.**

Madame Giry gripped her daughter tightly by the wrist, not daring to let her go. Meg looked back at her mother with a malicious intensity—the older woman was stopping a righteous punishment and disregarding the life of her friend—her sister: Christine Daae; the young chorus girl who had become an overnight sensation when La Carlotta was too great for the stage.

A resolve burned in her daughter's eyes—the same resolve Mme. Giry had lost a moment ago in the sudden wellspring of memories that surfaced when she had led M. le Vicomte de Chagny to the Phantom. Her ultimate betrayal to Erik.

Even now she doubted her actions and restrained her daughter from worsening the attack on her conscience. Had what she down proved just? What of Erik? Meg had already gathered a multitude to destroy the man Mme. Giry had once taken pity on, and worked so hard to protect; a boy who had been tortured for the entertainment of others. Perhaps, if he had not committed so many murders in the Opera Populaire, then she would not have to have led the Vicomte to the brilliant mind hidden below the Opera house.

But even now, in this struggle of ethics and goodwill, Mme. Giry hesitated; still holding to her daughter who had not yet overthrown her wavering judgment by tossing off her hand.

Erik had not always been this way.

But there was no good way to tell Meg that. No time to tell her. If her daughter had only been there—had seen the horrors her mother had seen—perhaps she would have understood, have been sympathetic. But the fire in the young woman's eyes spoke only of justice. Justice had only one tongue, one taste, and justice was not always sweet.

"Mother, let me go." The young woman said, her voice low and a note of danger strung along its bottom, surprising Mme. Giry. This was not the daughter she knew. A hundred hundred words flashed in silent conversation between their eyes; with not a word spoken.

_Mother, let me go._

_You'll hurt him._

_He deserves this now! Remember Joseph? Piangi? Have you not a care for them?_

_They spoke too freely._

_You mean to say they deserved what they got._

_Of course not child! But they were entirely insensitive towards him. If you had only seen…seen how they treated him!_

_He used your trust, Mother. For his own selfish ends._

_My darling, if only you knew._

Meg tested her mother's grip, but the woman did not release her.

_There's no time. He must be brought to justice!_

_I worry for you…what if you're hurt?_

_Are you worried for my sake, or for his?_

_How dare you even think such a thing!_

Another tug.

_Let me go! You let the Vicomte go—why not me? He might need our help._

_That's another matter. I…I would not see you in danger._

A glare.

_I can handle myself, Mother. Think of Christine! I must do this!_

Still the resolve burned in little Meg Giry's eyes, a girl not so little before her mother anymore. Madame Giry had seen a lifetime of growth pass in those few moments. Her daughter had matured. Still, Madame held to her daughter, though now less for fear and more to lay hold to the little girl she once had and was losing in the face of this brave young woman. What had happened to her little girl?

Finally, she spoke, and her voice was the voice of a woman's.

"Mother."

There was so much authority in this softly uttered phrase; so much presence, so much control. And Madame Giry suddenly realized she had become the child and her daughter the woman.

Slowly, very slowly did Madame Giry's hand release around her daughter's wrist and fall limply back to her side. Even after being freed from the restraining hold, the last tangible bond of childhood, Meg tarried. She stared at her mother, an archangel, a pillar of light and strength. The blossom of womanhood spreading its rosy petals before the Madame as she shrank back, becoming at once a child and an old woman before its brilliance. She was powerless to stop this force—helpless to stop her daughter from growing as she was to stop her from pursuing the ghost, made man.

Meg had become all Antoinette had ever hoped to be, surpassing even her highest of hopes.

Meg gave one last look at her mother, one of thanks, of resolve, before hurrying down the steps, the same path Le Vicomte had taken, to the belly of the Opera and the phantom within. Antoinette watched her daughter go, as she had watched Raoul—they were all so young, so passionate as they rallied for a cause that had once so spurred herself to action. She worried for all four of them: Her daughter, her second daughter, the count, and her friend; a friend she felt she barely knew anymore.

Antoinette hesitated on the steps, unable to follow the path the count or Meg had taken; she was fastened by a childhood of memories—but yet, unable to leave it either. If only she could intervene, stop the madness, the chaos, as she had all those years ago—she could keep them all safe from the cruelties of the world.

Perhaps she had been living a dream.

A foolish, childish dream that Erik had fostered and she had nurtured. But all the magic had dissipated like a fog, leaving the cold illusion bare for all to see and know of its trick. Meg had seen through the cloud that misted over Antoinette's eyes, and nothing barred the young woman's resolution of justice.

The lamp was quivering in Antoinette's hand—she still could not advance or draw away; looking down into the gloom, trapped in limbo like a sinner unworthy of her wings in the eyes of God. But the all-seeing eyes of the Opera belonged to Erik. And she had betrayed him.

So trapped would Antoinette Giry remain. Trapped, until her daughter would destroy the Almighty Lord himself and set all the souls He had claimed at the Populaire free, for she had been cast from his favor, not to the fiery depths her daughter braved, but suspended in limbo, which perhaps was worse for the true punishment she deserved, and would never receive.

* * *

**Author's Note: I wrote this little diddy when I was bored at school and then I doodled on the last page. Random? Yes. I sort of figured that Meg would have had to slip past her mother at some point when pursuing Erik, and I wondered, what if Madame had held her back, just for a moment to gather her thoughts, to reflect that her little girl wasn't so little anymore. Just that whole transformation in them both. I shocked myself. In a good way, of course. Still, it was somewhat tough, I wanted to get in depth, but at the same time, not lose that etheral feel...Nevermind, I'm not sure what I'm trying to get it. All I know is it's written!**

**This has got to be the most reflective piece I've done in a good long while, that has any real density to it. And after writing so many monster 5000+ word stories, coming back to a breath of a fic is nice.**

**I think I'll always be in love with Phantom and his tragic story; the flame there never dies. And it's only ever boosted when great actors are cast in moving roles--like Miranda Richardson! She made a fantastic Mme. Giry, and even that's an understatement. I loved her performance! She was certainly my inspiration for the recent Phantom fanfictions I've done and I hope the muse stays burning strong!**

**Please leave a review! Short and sweet and good to eat...?**

**Blackfire 18**


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